EACH WEEK, WE'LL TAKE A LOOK BACK AT A MEMORABLE MOMENT IN ILLINI HISTORY, THANKS TO THE WORDS OF THE NEWS-GAZETTE

This week: Lou Henson, who will be honored at Tuesday's game, continues to show a lot of spunk in his retirement days.

Date: May 23, 2010

Headline: Lou Can Do

By BOB ASMUSSEN

Alone in the Bromley Hall pool at 4:15 a.m., he clutches the railing with both hands. Counting softly to himself ... "One, two, three" ... he is the picture of concentration.

He doesn't hear the splish, splosh of a dripping fountain. Or the whirring from a pop machine ... "17, 18, 19."

Lou Henson is many things: Hall of Fame-worthy coach, devoted family man, beloved Champaign-Urbana icon, cancer survivor, loyal friend.

At the Bromley pool, he becomes Aqua Lou. Swimming brisk laps while most of the city sleeps, he intersperses the workout with leg-strengthening exercises at water's edge ... "25, 26, 27."

Several times a week, Henson is in the pool. Before the early-arriving News-Gazette hits his doorstep ... "32, 33, 34."

The indoor pool at Bromley is student friendly. A basketball hoop sits above the water on one side. Tables and chairs line the deck. Fake palm trees add a tropical touch.

Henson rarely sees any of the residents, unless they are coming home when he arrives at 4. Nobody else is doing the Australian crawl with Henson. He's got the pool to himself.

Henson's day actually starts at 1:45 a.m. He sleeps five hours each night. Max. So, when his head hits the pillow at 9 p.m., an earlier start is a lock.

He makes use of every waking second. Eats a banana for breakfast. Cleans the dishes. Takes out the trash (the haulers are hours away from their rounds). Fills in a crossword puzzle ("Good for the mind.") Watches a bit of Fox News Network.

His car has some water-in-the trunk issues, so he climbs into wife Mary's Cadillac for the short drive to Bromley. Same route every time.

He zips past WDWS on Windsor Road before taking a left at First Street. Soon, you see the large, white building he called home court for 21 years.

On a rainy morning, he parks behind Bromley. The semester is over and the building is empty, so there are plenty of open spaces.

Henson has his own keys to the building. He greets Bromley employee John on the way in. Always by name. That's the Henson way. There are no strangers.

John unlocks the elevator, which takes Henson to the locker room. The tan lockers have a high school feel, circa 1970. The tile floor is a combination of off-white and yellow squares. It's no country club or fancy fitness center. But it serves Henson's purposes.

He wets his head, making it easier to put on a swim cap. Then, goggles. Oh, yeah, he's wearing trunks, too.

It's 20 steps from the locker room to the pool. Henson puts his weight on his bad right leg, continuing to strengthen it. Six months ago, he was using a cane, so there's been steady progress.

Henson used to swim as a kid in Oklahoma. But he put the sport away. Five decades in coaching didn't leave time to play in the water.

Necessity sent him back to the pool. Actually, a near-death experience and months in a wheelchair sent him back to the pool.

Recovering from viral encephalitis that caused paralysis in his right leg, his body couldn't handle a ground regimen. But water offered resistance for his legs. Perfect.

Henson has plenty of swimming options. But Bromley's easy access makes it the best choice. Plus, he knows people. Henson is a longtime friend of Bromley president Jim Graham. The former coach does some public relations work for the private dormitory.

The volume and intensity of the workouts continue to rise each week. "I couldn't do anything when I first started," Henson says.

Now, he swims lap after lap. Some backstroke. Some freestyle. The only breaks are for his side-of-the-pool exercises.

After 47 minutes, the workout ends. It's still dark outside. Henson is huffing and puffing as he climbs out of the pool and heads for the shower. Sorry, ladies, no pictures.

At 5 a.m., he quickly dresses and goes to the elevator. "Bye, John," Henson shouts as he walks out the door and toward the car.

HOME SWEET HOME

The car lights hit the back of the garage by 5:15 a.m. Today's News-Gazette is in the driveway, protected by a blue bag. Henson's got his reading material.

Taking care of a hungry guest, he pops premade pancakes into the microwave. There are cereal choices too, all of the healthy variety. No Cap'n Crunch or Cocoa Krispies at the Hensons. Special K, Raisin Bran and Go Lean Crunch fill one edge of the kitchen island.

The Hensons have been in the same south Champaign home for 35 years. They live in a tree-lined neighborhood that, at times, has been teeming with kids. Even during his busy coaching days, Henson would offer advice to the kids shooting hoops across the street and down the block.

Of course, the Hensons raised their own children is the same neighborhood. Lori is the oldest girl and is a teacher in Mahomet. Her daughter, 24-year-old Catie, lives in her grandparents' home.

Early one morning ... really, really early one morning ... Catie heard a pounding against her window. Worried it might be an intruder, she looked out and instead saw what appeared to be golf-ball-sized hail pelting the house. The golf ball part was right. It was grandpa getting in his morning chip shots on the front lawn.

Middle daughter Lisa lives in Houston and has a son, Evan, who is a potential Division I baseball player.

Youngest daughter Leigh Anne lives in Loveland, Ohio, a Cincinnati suburb and has three children: Haley (16), Will (14) and Claire (12).

The fourth Henson child, Lou Jr., was killed in a single-car accident on Nov. 20, 1992. Then the coach at Parkland College, Henson Jr. was driving home after a game on a rainy, windy night. He swerved, hit a culvert and rolled his car "three or four times."

"He didn't have his seatbelt on," Henson says. "Had he had his seatbelt on, he would have been OK."

Henson talked to others who had been through a similar tragedy. Everyone said the first six months would be the worst. They were.

"When you lose a son or daughter, there's guilt," Henson says. "Because you think, 'Surely, there's something you could have done to help the situation.' "

Coaching served as a distraction. After Lou Jr.'s services, Lou and Mary flew to Alaska for a basketball tournament.

"You needed to stay busy," Henson says.

SUPERHERO

Seven years after a cancer diagnosis (he's in remission again) and six years removed from viral encephalitis that almost killed him, Henson's life is relatively back to normal. Lou and Mary split their time between Champaign and Las Cruces, N.M.

Mary Henson thinks back to Lou's hospital stay, time in a wheelchair and long recovery. Every day was a step forward, Henson determined to walk again on his own.

Mary can't believe how he is today.

"I call him Iron Man 3," she says.

"He's not normal. You can quote me."

Maybe some felt sorry for him when he was in a wheelchair. He didn't. Not for an instant. The eternal optimist in Henson wouldn't allow it.

Henson tells the story of being at a grocery store and asking a fellow customer, "How are you?" The answer: "Not worth a darn."

That, Henson says, sums up the other person's outlook. And shows defeat.

"State of mind is important," Henson says.

Henson once stood toe-to-toe with Bob Knight in the Assembly Hall tunnel. He likes a challenge.

His non-Hodgkin's lymphoma can't be cured. Henson's aggressive treatment likely led to viral encephalitis, an inflammation of the brain.

With a bleak prognosis, Henson turned over power of attorney. He couldn't sign his name with anything but an "X."

Henson doesn't remember 3 1/2 weeks of his life. He woke up wondering A) Where am I? and B) What am I doing here?

He didn't waste any time recovering, starting speech therapy and physical therapy immediately. He couldn't remember his address or phone number. He had to learn everything over, starting with the basics.

There was a disconnect from brain to mouth, one that continues today. He might want to say "meet me at 4:30," but instead says "meet me at 6:30." When he concentrates, he gets it right.

Some might resist telling the legend when he says the wrong thing. Mary doesn't hesitate. After 55 years of marriage, she sets him straight.

"They said I should correct him," Mary Henson says. "They didn't have to tell me that. I would have corrected him."

He lost 50 pounds because of the illness but has gained it all back. He eats healthy. Mostly.

Henson tried to return to the sidelines months after the viral encephalitis. But he contracted pneumonia, which ended his career for good.

"I was very reluctant," Mary Henson says. "He was still in a wheelchair when he was going to go back to coaching again. God was telling us something when he gave him pneumonia. Pneumonia was the final straw."

Henson got boxes of letters from fans. The support came from everywhere, even old nemesis Knight, who called during Henson's time in the hospital.

"You can't hold grudges," Henson says. "If you do, you're only hurting yourself."

Henson still has some physical issues. Henson's balance was affected so much that he was taught how to fall.

"I quit counting after I'd fallen 30 times," Henson says. "It's not that I wanted to fall."

PAR (AND BIRDIE) FOR THE COURSE

The farm report blares on the radio. The corn crop is off to a rough start. Too much water. Soy beans are yada, yada, yada, blah, blah, blah.

It's white noise for the 78-year-old with a goal: get to the golf course. Hit a few at the range. Practice putting. Tee off at 6:30.

He tried to get out two days earlier, but rain pelted the greens and fairways in Savoy. He still made the drive. He still met with usual playing partners Loren Tate, Jim Terry and Bill Vaughn. If it's on the schedule, Henson's there.

Now, a perfect spring morning greets the golfer/coach. There is one other car in the parking lot when he pulls up just before 6. The pro shop isn't open yet.

Henson loves golf. But it isn't a lifelong infatuation.

He barely played during the bulk of his coaching career. As retirement approached in the mid-1990s, Henson decided he better learn the sport.

"Golf is very important for me," Henson says. "I've been busy all my life, and it gives me something to do. You can't just quit."

The round actually starts in his yard at about 5:15. He tosses a bag of balls into the grass. On the other side of the driveway, he places two targets, grabs his pitching wedge and starts whacking away. Rapid fire, one ball after the other goes into the yard. A few hit the street. But most land close to the target.

Henson quickly picks up 85 balls with a fancy retrieval device that keeps him from having to bend over. Of course, he might leave a ball or two behind. Or six. Don't worry, the guys who mow the lawn will run them over later. Not good for the blades.

At the course, Henson turns social butterfly, greeting everyone he encounters.

Before cancer and viral encephalitis, Henson was scoring in the 80s and 90s. He repeatedly tells the story of beating Tate and Terry in one round. Today, with a weakened right leg, he's hoping to break 100.

He's coaching the entire round, shouting "Beauty" when one of his playing partners hits a good shot. He's encouraging to others and self-deprecating about his own game.

Henson's got some game left and shows it on No. 2. His tee shot on the par-3 hole lands on the green and he calmly rolls in a 15-foot putt. Birdie time. No jumping for joy, but maybe a little fist pump. Subtle.

On No. 5, Henson holes out his chip from off the green for a bogey.

"I do that about once a year," he says.

At 8:05, Henson makes the turn, stopping at the snack bar for a quick cup of coffee. He eats a fruit and nut granola bar after shooting 50 on the front nine.

The second nine doesn't go quite as well. He starts to lose his concentration on the later holes. A par on No. 13 reduces the damage. Henson finishes with a 51 for a 101 total, 1 stroke off the pre-round goal.

Just as important to Henson as the score is the T.O.R. (time of round). It's three hours. On the dot. Including a stop at the snack bar. Speed thrills.

"I like to play fast," Henson says. "I don't like to wait. I'm impatient."

SPECIAL MEMORIES

Thirty-five years ago, Henson started his Illinois basketball camp with Bromley as the base. Henson recruited 47 kids the first summer.

A few years later, with his basketball program rolling and Magic Johnson the guest speaker, there were 1,800 campers. An extra session had to be added.

The dozen or so coaches and friends who gather at the Bromley Hall cafeteria don't care that Henson isn't in the Basketball Hall of Fame. He's in theirs.

Dave Kreps, Mark Coomes, Ron Alexis, Bill Thompson, Jim Terry, Bill Vaughn, Gerry Thornton, Loren Tate, Ray Wittmann and Jim Graham talk about the good old days.

Henson's Illini basketball camps ran from Sunday morning to Friday night. The camps used Huff Hall, IMPE, the UI Armory, Kenney Gym, the National Guard Armory in Urbana and, believe it or not, the UI Ice Arena (unfrozen, of course).

The list of former speakers is impressive: Magic Johnson. Isiah Thomas, Kevin McHale, Derek Harper, Gene Keady and Eddie Johnson.

It wouldn't have been the same without Henson, the winningest coach at Illinois and New Mexico State. His 779 wins put him 11th among the all-time Division I coaches.

Still, no call from the Hall. One of the reasons, apparently, is his winning percentage (.649). There are coaches in the Hall of Fame with lower marks. Like Marv Harshman (.578), Ralph Miller (.632) and Phil Woolpert (.591). Of those three, only Woolpert won a national title.

"There are a lot of people that are not in that I think deserve to be in more than I," Henson says. "That doesn't bother me at all."

You can't judge coaches, Henson says, by winning percentages. Some inherit great programs. Others try to build. And players leave early.

A year after winning the national title at North Carolina, Roy Williams lost 17 games this season.

Did he forget how to coach? Of course not, Henson says. The game continues to humble, no matter what you've done in the past.

"There are too many good coaches," Henson says.

Basketball has provided plenty for Henson. There is a court named after him at New Mexico State, a street in Champaign and a stretch of highway in New Mexico. He was hired without applying at Las Cruces High School and three colleges.

Hardin-Simmons was his first stop. He only agreed to take the job after the school promised to integrate the team. That was a deal-breaker for Henson.

Four years later, New Mexico State went after its former player. After nine successful seasons with the Aggies, he was approached by Illinois in 1975.

Rumors got out about the hotshot coaching prospect for the Illini ... Virginia Tech's Don Devoe. Few besides Henson knew the truth.

"Cecil Coleman called me one morning and said, 'Lou, we'd like you to come up and interview for the Illinois job,' " Henson says. "I said, 'Sure.' That afternoon, Wade Walker the AD at Oklahoma called me. He said, 'We'd love to have you come in and talk to us about this job.' I said, 'Wade, I don't think so.' I thought I was going to be offered this job."

Still, Henson met with Oklahoma officials in Tulsa. Walker told him, "We'll pay you what we're paying Barry Switzer, $30,000." Not that Henson believed the figure.

Henson's salary his first year at Illinois — $30,000.

TAKE IT TO THE BRIDGE

The lunch breaks up after about 90 minutes. The old friends promise to see each other again soon. But Henson's got a bridge game waiting for him at home and he doesn't want to be late.

And he doesn't want to drive too fast. Generally, Henson's a rule follower. But he has picked up a speeding ticket or two.

He got his first while coaching at New Mexico State. He was into his 30s.

"I'm a stickler on things."

Sometimes, his celebrity saves him tickets.

"When people know me and I have a problem, people usually forget about it," Henson says. "That gripes Mary."

His one brush at Illinois with the NCAA gripes Henson. After a lengthy investigation into the recruitment of Deon Thomas, Illinois was banned from the postseason for one year and forced to limit scholarships.

Twenty years later, Henson can barely bring himself to talk about it.

"What they said, a lot of that wasn't true," Henson says.

The NCAA Committee on Infractions found that the Illinois program "lacked institutional control." There were also charges about recruiting practices at the school, though the evidence didn't support the most serious allegations.

"What I think they should do is investigate every school. If you investigate long enough, you're going to find some violations," Henson says.

Then-Chancellor Mort Weir and President Stan Ikenberry supported Henson and his staff.

"I'll always appreciate that," Henson says. "They were positive all the way."

No flashing red lights on this trip. Or NCAA investigators. Henson makes it back to the house in plenty of time for bridge. He's joined by former neighbor Thompson, Dave Lawrence and Clyde Smith.

"This will be as exciting as watching paint dry," Smith says.

Henson has been playing bridge for years. Unlike golf, Henson doesn't think it's a game you can pick up later in life. And he's got a family example to prove it. He tried to teach his younger brother Ken how to play bridge. But after one day, Ken Henson vowed to never play again.

They play the game for high stakes: 1/10 of a penny per point. Lawrence in the big winner, hauling in a whopping $1.15. Henson and Thompson each win 40 cents. Smith pays everybody off.

DINNER PLANS

It's common to see the Hensons out on the town. Meeting with friends. Greeting fans.

Henson is everybody's favorite former coach. "Call me Lou," he'll tell them.

Talk to Henson for five minutes and you'll feel like you've known him for years. He oozes sincerity. There's no ego. No vanity. Kindness comes first.

Tonight, they are at The Ribeye, dining with longtime friends Dr. Gene and Toni Greenberg. Later, they've got a bridge game scheduled. It's a rare doubleheader for Henson, who keeps his bridge games carefully plotted on a monthly schedule.

Henson stays connected to Champaign-Urbana with friends like the Greenbergs. And he stays involved with Illinois sports.

When he's in town, he'll go to every football or basketball game. He's a fan of current coach Bruce Weber, whom he has known for years.

"He's a hard worker," Henson says. "He does an excellent job. He's going against other good coaches, too."

The level of coaching is better than when he got started in the 1960s. And better than when he left Illinois in 1996.

Lon Kruger replaced him and Henson was impressed. And Henson is a longtime friend of Bill Self, a fellow Oklahoman.

Henson could have stayed later in the 1990s. He had talented, young players returning. But rival coaches were using his age against him.

He told athletic director Ron Guenther he would step aside. Henson's only request was that he get paid for his remaining year. The school said yes.

"It wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thing," Henson said.

Could he deal with the modern-day player? Sure, you can always learn. A better question: could they deal with him?

"I was hard on the guys," Henson says. "I found out years ago, you can't teach in the classroom or you can't teach kids unless they're disciplined."

Even at his age, he competes. Always.

"People think I'm easy going. I'm a different person on the floor."

And in the pool ... the golf course ... the bridge table ... "76, 77, 78."